


Day 2: High

by Anonymous



Series: Prowl Week [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Come Inflation, Dom/sub Undertones, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gestalt (Transformers), M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23763859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Something in the back of his processor insists that this isn't right, that he should be afraid, should be angry. But how can he be, when he's so comfortable in his gestalt's arms?
Relationships: Constructicons/Prowl (Transformers)
Series: Prowl Week [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709728
Comments: 2
Kudos: 115
Collections: Maccadam's Back Room First Run





	Day 2: High

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Maccadams1](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Maccadams1) collection. 



Prowl pressed his chevron to the wall with a low groan, optic shutters heavy and processor sluggish. He was not a morning person, any mech he’d worked with during the war could attest to that, but this morning he felt even slower and groggier than usual. His tacnet was still churning away in the back of his processor, but its readout on his HUD had been temporarily replaced by a scrolling list of system reports, updating as he ran an internal diagnostic. Increased operating temperature was the only thing which jumped out at him, but he already knew that. He’d woken with his fans running, and they hadn’t stopped yet. Had he caught something? It’d been a while since that happened, but then again, this was the first time in four million meta-cycles he’d not gotten a fresh antiviral booster with his regular check-up.

Regardless, he still had work to do today, and belatedly realized that the dispenser next to him had finished filling his cube several kliks ago. Frag, he was off his game. Maybe he’d see if Ratchet had a free slot later on, make an appointment for a fresh booster before the Lost Light took off again. If nothing else, he could at least find out how long this was going to last. He took a drink of his fuel, and reached for the coolant on the shelf above the dispenser, absently adding a bit between sips as he tried to walk his sluggish processor through his work itinerary. It was mostly datawork, nothing urgent, but there was a meeting later that he should probably reschedule...

He finally finished his cube, and tossed it and the empty coolant carton in the trash. His processor, somehow, felt even fuzzier than before, but he felt only a brief flicker of concern. Ratchet was back on Cybertron, this was nothing he couldn’t handle. It took him a few tries to properly lock the door behind himself, but eventually Prowl managed it and hit the road. Motor memory guided him through the streets of Metroplex, a warm haze of contentment spreading through him as his wheels hummed over tarmac. He pulled over into the transformation lane to flip back into root mode, and frowned at the building in front of him. Not the structure in central Iacon where his office was located, but the squat, drab one which the Constructicons lived in. Which they had wanted him to move into with them, despite its impractical location and the fact that he could barely tolerate them in small doses.

Irritation bubbled up, but smothered under the warmth which radiated through him, setting off a faint ping in the back of his processor that he should probably check on, except his pedes were already moving, carrying him up the walkway lined with struggling garden crystals towards a violently purple front door. He should- should do... something. There was something he was supposed to be doing, but trying to remember was like wading though tar. A message popped up on his HUD, and Prowl composed the reply automatically.

::Not feeling well. Won’t be in for work.::

The door slid open as he sent the message off, and Prowl staggered under the bombardment of five synchronised fields. Right into the Constructicons’ arms, which roused the half-shuttered bond, and the warmth flowing through him skyrocketed in intensity. The Constructicons were talking, but the couldn’t make out the words, which made that program in the back of his processor spike again but only for a moment before it was swept away in the bond like the rest of him. Strong arms wrapped around him, lifting hm effortlessly, and his gratitude was answered with a wash of affection which stuck him like a tidal wave, knocking the air from his vents. He was held, safer than he’d ever been, and yet he was falling, sinking into the bond, drowning in the depth of what he had thought was a passing attraction.

His gestalt pressed closer at that, _missed you need you want you_ swirling around him, in him, though his processor and spark as he let the bond open wider than he had since they combined. It felt _right_ , being in their arms, being with them. A sense of oneness permeated the bond, and the program in the back of his processor that kept insisting something was wrong crashed as he reached out through the bond to press his own fuzzy sense of safety on the others. He hadn’t felt this secure in- in _ever_. Remembering things was hard, with the warmth of the bond taking up so much of his processor, but he knew in his spark that nobody had made him feel like this before. Desirable, like he was someone _worth_ protecting.

Another ping as his bothersome system rebooted, and Prowl glanced at it with a slight frown, the bond immediately flooding with fresh affection. He was overheating, or near to. Recommended course of action, remove self from contact with heated frames and seek cooler environment. But... he didn’t _want_ to. It felt good, having his gestalt piled on and around him. Felt right in a spark-deep way, though his gestalt were still eager for... something. What could feel so good as this, though? He nuzzled against someone’s collar fairing, doorwings flicking into large, rough hands as the warmth suffusing him began to grow and coalesce.

He squirmed at the sensation, whining softly as he groped the frame in front of him, the frame which was Decepticon, that pesky program insisted, spitting out probabilities of harm or extortion with alarm Prowl certainly didn’t feel. How could he be any kind of afraid, wrapped up in his gestalt? His own arms and legs and torso, wrapped around him close as they could be without combining. Still, he wanted more. Wanted the unity which sang between his bondmates, the certainty that something more was coming, something good. He dove into the bond again, alarmed program crashing once more as he pressed _one with me_ against his gestalt’s sparks, a plea his vocaliser couldn’t manage at the moment.

 _One with us_ they pulsed back as one, and Prowl sobbed as one of his gestalt arched behind him, a thick thigh settling between his legs. He wanted- the starburst of heat around his spark began to sink, his internals going molten in its wake until it settled just above his pelvic span, a tight bundle of desire he’d not felt in- primus he didn’t even know. It didn’t matter though, he had his gestalt with him now, they would take care of him, and he them, and all would be one.

The thigh between his legs was replaced by a spike, another pressing against his front, and he whined as the hands on his frame grew bolder, groping his doorwings and bumper with purpose, spreading static charge over his plating, sinking molten heat into his lines. A hand fumbled with the latches of his modesty panel, smearing slick everywhere and making his valve clench behind the protective plating. His desperation leaked into the bond, and his gestalt responded with a pulse of desire so strong it made him tremble, spikes grinding against his frame more insistently as one of them swore and tugged at his panel.

A fearful warning flashed high probability of the Decepticons ripping his plating off and having their way with him, and Prowl arched into the hand tugging at his panel. Plating could be reattached, he needed his gestalt inside him _now_ , needed them to be one with him, needed to be as close as they could get without combining. A high, needy whine slid from his vocaliser as he rocked into the spike grinding on his front, and a wet hand circled around his wrist, tugging his hand down to his own panel. He curled his fingers into the seam at the edge of it, and motor memory alone guided him through undoing the latches which held his armour in place. It was ripped from his frame as soon as it was free, cast away to clatter to the floor, but Prowl only registered that faintly.

Rough hands pulled his hands away from his valve, other fingers sinking into him without preamble and spreading, testing him. When the fingers withdrew he let out a noise that might’ve been embarrassing with any other partner, but only stoked his gestalt’s arousal, and his own in turn. It wasn’t a moment later that a spike replaced them, spearing deep, and he sobbed static as long-unused calipers were made to yield. It hurt, it _burned_ , but he wasn’t full yet. He needed more.

Prowl angled his hips to better rock against the spike grinding deeper, groping at the bond to draw his gestalt closer, pouring his desire over them and being answered in kind, the roar of his engine and fans lost among the sounds of heavier frames. His valve throbbed as he overloaded, but the shout of it came from someone else’s mouth. Expert hands on his doorwings had him trembling, but so did a glossa on someone else’s node, medic-sensitive fingers in an eager mouth, claws curled between treads and a spike in a valve. Every pleasure was multiplied within the bond, his frame his own but also theirs, and their frames his. _Closer_ he sobbed as the spike within him stilled, searing hot transfluid igniting every node between the spike tip and his internal port. _More _.__

__**One with us** his gestalt pushed back, a fresh spike taking the place of the one withdrawing from his valve, and cracked, dry lips captured his as someone guided one of his hands to a spike it barely even fit around, already slick with lubricant that wasn’t his. He moaned eagerly into his partner’s mouth, servicing his other bondmate with his hand as well as his near-overload spasms allowed, and the charge which surged through him as his climax hit swept through the rest of his gestalt as well, tripping three others into overload, including the one rutting into his palm._ _

__Two overloads turned into three, into five, into too many to count as his vents laboured with the effort of keeping his processor from melting and his abdominal armour grew tight, his tank swelling with the massive volume of transfluid pumped into it. Quick, sure fingers found the removal latches without hesitation, and Prowl gasped loudly as he was lifted to sit on a spike that, at this angle, just barely kissed the seal of his internal port. He leaned back against a broad chest as one of those clever hands caressed his bumper, the other stroking circles over the scarred derma already starting to round over his swollen tank. Every optic was on him, he could feel it just as clearly as he could feel the raging lust his bared belly incited in his mates over their bond._ _

__He smiled, and pulsed **More** over the bond. Not a request, but an order, from helm to frame._ _

__They obeyed._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies to any not-logged-in readers, but due to an ex who refuses to leave me alone I have had to disable anon comments. Kudos are still open though, and if you want to scream (or would like me to write a fic for you, as this was written for the lovely anon from Maccadams) come check me out on Pillowfort! No account required to get my discord, and I'm always happy to chat. [[Link](https://www.pillowfort.social/GemmaRose)]


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